The Good Old Days
by Fronkensteen
Summary: Netherlands isn't particular fond of the reunion idea. Nor is he fond of the lewd look the Spaniard has everytime he looks at Romano. Now the nation takes it upon himself to preserve Romano's virginity, whether the Southern half wants his protection or not.


**Hello, everyone! This is my first story on FFN and I'm ecstatic! If you find any mistakes in the story, grammatical or otherwise, please let me know. I only want to improve, so be as mean as you want.**

**The beginning is slightly strange and a little slow, but I urge you to keep reading. Everything will come full circle, so if you read a line and think "What the hell is _that_ doing there?" , be assured that it will come into play later:)**

**I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Netherlands had hated parties since 1843, when a careless driver had accidentally crushed the head of his beloved bunny, Mr. Bigglesworth, and left his remains in a grotesque heap in the tulips.

It happened shortly after he'd won sweet, glorious independence, when it had left him in such a rare mood that he was determined for everyone to bask in a similar happiness. His new house (how strange it had sounded, Netherlands remembered, calling the house his, without the added _master's_) became the celebratory grounds for nearly every nation, each one bringing Netherlands a welcome –to-the-world gift while delighting with the abundant alcohol and the inebriated state of those they had been desiring to conquer. And, being a creature of a humble nature, Netherlands even invited his former guardian; who, the nation not so secretly delighted in, sulked in the corner for the entire night nursing a warm Jenever.

People were drunk, Spain was absolutely miserable, and Netherlands was free. It should have been the perfect mixture to create one of the most magical nights in Netherlands' existence.

But on the morning after the party, when Netherlands wandered around outside his cottage gathering discarded party poppers, he found it. The mangled corpse, spread wide within a new patch of house warming tulips. The torn apart body of Mr. Bigglesworth, the bunny that his sister had given him so long ago. The bunny that he sat with in the grass, feeding carrots and watching Romano drop the clean laundry into a pile of mud. His best friend. He knew it had been one of the nations that visited, for there was wheel marks around the corpse and Netherlands had not left the property for days. But it was impossible to tell whose carriage had done the deed. Netherlands still did not know who ended the innocent life.

Thus what was supposed to be the happiest day of his life was forever associated with the death of his best friend. He arranged a funeral in his backyard on a rainy day, and placed a beautiful bouquet of tulips in front of the tombstone (hand carved- Bigglesworth deserved the very best goddamnit) while Belgium put a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was the third time in his entirely long existence that he ever shed tears, and quite possible one of the worst days he ever experienced.

It was on that day that Netherlands decided that the world within his cottage home was much superior to that of the cold, heartless world that somehow derived pleasure from the dismemberment of fluffy bunnies.

It was also on that day that Netherlands declared a pseudo sense of isolation, now not allowing any nation to step afoot within his safe space. The only person he managed to ritually keep in contact with was his sister, and even then it was considerable less than before, because no matter how long the time or strong the love nothing could replace the wheel marks that were left on his heart.

(He also taken up the art of writing poetry to express his emotions, at the bequest of Romano, who seemed to be flourishing in the arts; yet Netherlands was the only one who appreciated his attempts. Jealously was certainly a green hideous beast)

While Netherlands did keep contact with his sister with the causal correspondence, it was strikingly odd for her to show up at his door on a lazy Sunday afternoon, unannounced and unexpected.

"Hello, brother." She said. Belgium was considerably more fashionable than Netherlands was, easily determinable by her clothing. The wool green petticoat topped with a bowled hat created a classical look his sister radiated in.

Netherlands stared. Any reason for her to come by, without the required warning by postage, could only be bad.

Evidently he wore his expression on his face as Belgium sighed in an exaggerated manner and spoke in strained Dutch (since when had it been strained?), "Is this was we have been reduced to, Brother? Can you not recognize your own sister's face? Have we ignored one another far too long?"

Those words brought him to action and he embraced her as brothers are supposed to do, inviting her in and closing the door.

They had been silent since Belgium had walked in through the door, but that was not unusual among nations. When you have an unlimited lifespan and the present only goes so fast, conversation could only be so fresh for so long. It wasn't uncommon for nations to go for decades without a friendly get together, minus those dealings with political affairs.

Still, it had been seventy years since Netherlands had face to face contact with another nations; the letters did not count. A taste of conversation with an organic flow was not entirely unwelcomed. Plus, his sister was the one of the few beings that he was fond of. And it had been seventy years.

Netherlands followed the click of her heels into the parlor room, watching his sister as she observed the interior. She took down a frightening tribal mask that was displayed on the wall. Once brightly colored, the harsh conditions of being left in the sunlight and Netherlands general disregard for caring for his things made the paint wear thin. The wooden frame, with it's hideous, widely carved mouth allowed Belgium to see it's transparent insides. "This is new."

"From the Zulus. Went there in 1672. It was fun." Netherlands said, curtly. His experiments with imperialism had left a sour taste in his mouth. The mask served as a cruel reminder of what not to do when dealing with the natives of the land you wish to conquer.

She gave a pantomime of surprise "You went out into the world? Am I in the right house?"

"You're mocking me."

"I'd never mock you brother," she said, rather condescendingly, "Just stating the truth." Another pause, "You remind of Miranda."

His sister lived to confuse him. He was still required to entertain, however. "Who is Miranda?"

"From the show? You know, _The Tempest?"_

This was getting ridiculous, but Netherlands had not spoken to anyone besides the help and was willing to take any kind of conversation, even if it annoyed him. "The play?"

Belgium picked at tiny dust particles on the frightening mask. "I have come to realize that I have an underlined passion for the theater. It's so magnificent, Lars. The costumes, the music, and, _oh_, the dancing! Granted, The Tempest doesn't have much dancing, but still, it doesn't detract from the brilliance of the play. Have you seen it?"

"Have I seen a popular, three hundred year old play from the most famous writer in history?" Said Netherlands coley.

Truthfully he had not; it was something on his list but had no time for. But god forbid he would ever admit that to his sister.

"Yeah, well, you remind me of Miranda." repeated Belgium.

"I remind you of a girl?"

"No, of course not!" She giggled, "You remind me of a character who, after years of being trapped, was free to glimpse at the shimmering planet she lived on. '_Oh brave new world that has such people in it_.' She held the tribal mask aloft in one hand, up to eye level, and it looked as though she was speaking directly to it. "Tell me, did you say that on the ship to the Africas?"

Netherlands snorted, "The world is not new. It's old as shit. That is a stupid quote."

Then Belgium gave him a true look, a true smile, one that was soft and heavenly, one that he had not seen in ages. It was beautiful and inviting, and somehow Belgium inhabited two bodies at once. He saw the Belgium standing before him, but when she smiled like that, he saw his old sister, his greatest companion. It made him feel odd, for he did not feel exactly sadness, nor did he feel exactly joy. Her sincere smile was horribly bittersweet to him.

"You don't know how happy it makes me, "she began, "to know that in such a changing world, you will always be the same, brother."

Netherlands became worried at her tone. Perhaps Belgium had visited because she was in trouble. He should have said something comforting, like '_I am your brother, you can tell me_ anything 'or even just a simple '_Is something bothering you_?'.

"You're weird."

But being emotionally stunted had its effect upon Netherlands social skills.

Belgium had look befuddled for the briefest of moments, but she had always been sharp on her feet and recovered fast. She gave him a catlike smirk and placed the mask back on the wall. "Well, if there is one thing I can count on, it's that you are a busy man, brother, what with all your trading and growing and such." She waved her hand in a nonchalant, rolling motion. Netherlands narrowed his eyes at the sudden business-esque tone. "Which is why I am going to make this as brief as I possibly can." She turned and walked down the hall, pausing to say over her shoulder, "You may want to make some tea."

* * *

Netherlands did more than make some tea. He allowed his sister to taste some of his homemade goodies.

"Since when did you bake?" Belgium asked amused, holding her teacup and saucer. Netherlands put a tray of the painstakingly decorated pastries onto the coffee table as he sat down.

"I dabble in the art when business is slow." He gestured towards the wooden tray, "Try one."

She sipped her tea, taking longer than necessary to answer. "I will later."

Netherlands was offended by that. He lied when he said he had "dabble", for it was more accurate to say that he devoted every waking moment to it. Isolation does things to a man. So much time and not enough drama within his borders had led to unhealthy interest in hobbies. He bakes so much he even had developed specialty ovens for the ungodly amount of baking Netherlands had done.

For quite some time he had been craving for someone to test his baking abilities upon, but it proved difficult to find someone who would share an honest opinion with him. The only access Netherlands had was to his own people, and no one would be stupid enough to suggest that their own nation that their creations were insulting the art of baking. The only downfall to isolation, he regrettably admitted, was that no one trustworthy was around to try your creations.

Before he could protest, Belgium began to speak again. "I believe," she paused for a deep breath, "the best way to say this is to just come out and say it. No beating around the bush. I've always known you to be a no nonsense man."

"You know what would make it better? A pastry." He stated, with the most enthusiastic voice he had taken in a long while. As enthusiastic as he could get, at least.

Belgium set her teacup on the table and clapped her hands into a fist. She pressed her fist to her lips, deep in thought.

"They aren't that bad, I made them from scratch. See, I start with-"

"When was the last time you saw Spain?" Belgium said. Silence settled upon the small table.

It was said with a breezy voice, yet the tone made it clear that it was forced. His sister was choosing her words now, proven by the awkward stance she was giving, so unlike her easy, causal style.

But the most alarming was the reference of the Mediterranean nation. It was an unspoken, golden rule that no one was to mention that country while in the Dutchman's presence.

Oh, he hated that curly haired oblivious _fuck_, from the first instant he stepped his iron clad foot onto his beautiful country. From the moment he grinned that stupid shit-eating grin at him and suddenly was dragged down from a hopeful future and condemned to the will of the Spanish Empire.

Every minute spent under Spain's rule was agonizing, from the constant warfare, to the taxing of his people, to the sheer irritation that came to having been dominated by an idiot. He, along with countless other countries under the reign of the Spanish empire, had never looked back at their previous life of servitude. Life with the fucktard was unbearable, the only reason he survived was due to the companionship of his sister and the little brat.

Spain was cut from Netherlands life forever, with no regret. He could sense that Spain was disappointed with leaving the relationship on such a sour note, but Netherlands could not care. He deserved it.

Netherlands picked up a pastry from the tray and began to chew it slowly. He maintained an unblinking gaze on his sister the entire time.

When he swallowed, he said, "You should try one."

"_Lars_." She was exasperated. Only after one sentence. That was a record.

"What do you want me to say?" Said Netherlands, his voice shockingly calm, despite the intense bile building in his throat.

"That you aren't such a petty _ass_." Belgium said in harshness, but Netherlands was not offended by that. It would take much more from a sister to offend a brother. It did not take much for a brother to piss off a sister.

"Or that maybe that you grew in the last, what? Three centuries?" continued Belgium. Her anger had escalated incredibly fast, Netherlands noted. It was odd, considering that the Spanish nation had been a sore spot for Netherlands, and not his sibling. Though Netherlands secretly believed that his sister had accumulated some guilt over the way she had left Spain. She'd never admit it, though.

"I don't change, remember?" He couldn't help but give a smirk, and that infuriated the woman even more.

"It has been so long_, _Lars. Can't you let it go?"

"It'll take a lot longer than that to forgive what that fucker did." Said Netherlands. He reached for yet another pastry.

Belgium gaped at him, her teacup loose in her hand, the pastries half gone. "For god's sake, am I not allowed to even speak his name without pissing you off? That's pathetic."

"You seem more pissed than me."

"Appearances can be deceiving. I know underneath that exterior, you're fuming."

Why couldn't she shut up? She was right, and it made Netherlands angrier. It took him seventy years to appreciate his sister, and it only took an hour for him to wish her gone. He grabbed another pastry and chewed it furiously.

Suddenly, her face took on a dumbfounded look. Belgium raised a dainty finger to the edge of lips and made a wiping motion. "You have a little something."

The atmosphere that had seconds before had been threatening to suffocate them both became light and heavenly. They laughed together, as Netherlands took the napkin from his sister to clean the mess. They continued to laugh afterwards, bolstering until it dwelled down to breathless giggles. Then it stopped.

The silence from earlier returned with a vengeance. Netherlands hesitated to call it awkward, since it wasn't. It wasn't as though they did not want to talk to each other. They simply did not want to talk about this subject matter. Netherlands especially did not want to talk, and settled for the nearly empty pastry plate. He had been silent for close to the last century. He could keep it up a little longer.

Belgium grabbed his hand, which had been left dangling over the dessert tray. Instantly he looked up. "Spain's birthday is coming up. Romano came up with the idea to go visit him. I agreed to go, but we can't do this without you. It wouldn't be the same, unless we can get the whole gang together." Said Belgium. The words rushed out; it was not often that her brother was this docile with the touchy subject and she wasn't about to lose this opportunity.

"It would only be for a week. Just seven days. We stay at the mansion, be nice, stay for a party, see everyone, and then leave. You don't to buy anything, bring a present, or cook. Unless you want too!" She added quickly, eyeing the pastries.

"Essentially, it would be a vacation. You can even be an ass to Spain- it might be even better that way! It'll be more like old times!"

She gave the hand she was holding a comforting squeeze, her eyes glowing and pleading, "What do you say, Brother?"

Netherlands held on to his sister's gaze. "What makes you think I would ever want to go back." Said Netherlands.

Belgium's eyes did not dull, but ignited with another emotion. The hurt behind them wounded Netherlands himself, and he fought to not show it with his hard expression.

"I am free and happy now," he explained slowly. "It took centuries to do so, but now I am. I have my own land, my own home, and my own independence. All that remains back in that place are reminders of oppression. There is nothing for me there."

"Are you really happy?" Pressed Belgium. She was lighted with a passion he had not seen before, "When was the last time you talked to Romano? When was the last time you spoke with anyone, besides me?"

"I never cared for pointless-"

"Are you free?" Belgium said quickly.

"What do you mean?". Netherlands asked. His sister's question was asked so fiercely it was almost like an attack.

"You have done horrible things, and will continue to do horrible things. We all will. The only way to stay sane is to know that there will always those that will forgive and free us for the actions that condemn us."

"Spain is old, Lars. He is old, he is lonely and burdened by his past. What better present can we give him than his release?" Said Belgium. "You said nothing remains for you there. Then don't do it for you. Do it for Spain, for Roma, for me."

Belgium was nearly breathless, despite practically whispering the pleas for her brother. Her eyes were boring into his head, begging him to engage her, to acknowledge her. Netherlands firmly kept his head down.

"You are lonely too, Lars." She said, and Netherlands winced. It was the final nail in the coffin.

"How long did you have to rehearse this?" Said Netherlands in a low voice, although it held no malice.

"Come with us," she pleaded, "See him just for one week. That's all. See him for our sake for seven days and never see him again."

Belgium gave his hand a last, comforting squeeze. "_Please_."

Netherlands sighed, long and exasperated. Defeated, he looked up at his sister with a almost comical irritation about him. Another sigh. He straightened out his back, standing to full height on the couch. "When do we leave?"

* * *

**Like it? Despised it? Let me know! **

**Also, the rating may go up eventually, due mostly to the language factor and lewdness, yak yak yak. I don't think it will get anything explicitly sexual but I'm paranoid, and like to think that Spain is unintentionally perverted :)**

**Have a good day, and thanks for reading!**


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